


Only in Moonlight

by beeeinyourbonnet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), World Is Not Enough (1999)
Genre: F/M, werenard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the full moon appears and Renard discovers that he has been turned, the only thing that calms him down is the scent of a strange woman's perfume--and he knows that he'll never be able to live without her after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo this is werewolf!Renard, and it might get a little bestial later on, but if you want to read werenard anyway, do not worry--you will not miss any Major Plot Points if you skip the beast sex scenes, and if you do, I will make sure to summarize them. Also, I will mark the scenes so that you can skip them :D
> 
> ANYWAY HERE'S WERENARD. It's going to hopefully be more like a string of collected ficlets than a chaptered, novel-like work, but we'll see. :D ENJOY

Renard knew he’d been scratched by a wolf—a wolf that smelled familiar even in his human form—but it had been 28 days since he’d last thought about it. Since it was on his back, it wasn’t like he could see it, and he certainly couldn’t feel it, so it wasn’t until he felt the ripples between his shoulder blades and the sudden renewed bloodlust that he started to think anything was amiss.

Being in downtown London was not ideal for turning into a wolf, but Renard had about five minute’s warning to do anything about it, and he spent about three of the five minutes disbelieving that his nails were lengthening, his arm hair was growing, and his eyes were turning black. If not for superstitious Lagunov throwing caution to the wind and dragging Renard on a motorcycle out of London—crossing himself the whole way—he might have caused some serious damage, as well as been killed. London was a big enough city that there had to have been some nut with a silver bullet.

Lagunov gunned the motor, forcing the throttle as high as it could go and ripping through streets like they were empty, until they burst out into an open field.

“Renard, I do not know if you will be able to hear me when you are changed, but follow the motorcycle.”

Renard opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a growl, and Lagunov gave no warning other than to slow down before throwing him off the bike. He rolled, catching himself on arms swathed in thick fur, expanding before his eyes, and opened his mouth to let out a howl of pain as his back stretched and his muscles convulsed, ripping his t-shirt and his jeans, crushing everything in his pockets, and he continued howling until everything stopped and he stood there, doubled in size, panting hot clouds out of his snout.

He could hear a motorcycle and it sounded like it was right next to him, though he couldn’t see it, so he trotted toward the sound, clumsy on his four legs. He could feel the dirt churning beneath his paws, the light pricks of grass as he crushed it on his way, and he could smell everything—the grass, the dirt, badgers, crickets, heather, motorcycle exhaust—and hear all the city sounds. As he ran, there were new smells and new sounds, and he lost the trail of the motorcycle.

He howled again, finding it more and more difficult to remember why the motorcycle was important as he got steadier on his new legs, feeling both powerful and confused. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew that his claws were strong, and he ran faster just to feel the way they propelled him forward, and the way the wind whistled through the fur on his face.

He didn’t know how long he ran for—time seemed meaningless in the crisp night air—but he knew he was hungry. Renard the human was a hunter, and he knew how to stalk prey, but Renard the wolf didn’t need his skill because he had instincts and senses that made human tracking and hunting technology obsolete. He could smell a deer, and though it took him longer than an experienced wolf might have taken to find it, triumph that filled him when he spotted it in the distance. It tried to run, but Renard was too big and powerful, and had its throat crushed under his paw in seconds.

Figuring out how to eat with his new body parts took effort, and he was covered in blood by the time he had finished. Everything smelled like blood now, and when he wasn’t hungry, he didn’t like it. He rubbed his snout in dirt as he ran, trying to clean himself, but all he did was lap up a few bugs and get dirt on his snout.

The sounds of a sleepy town reached his ears—stuttering streetlamps, televisions, running water—and Renard wanted to explore. There was a patch of purple bell-shaped flowers growing  up ahead, and they looked abrasive enough to get the dirt off, so he rolled around in them.

When the pain hit him, it was like being stabbed with thousands of sharp pins, and he howled up at the moon, rolling onto the grass and clawing at his back and belly and legs. His claws left long, shallow gashes in their wake and they burned like an infection. Prancing around in the night was no longer fun. He stumbled toward the town, smelling blood and humans and disinfectant, and he was so tired now.

Everything made his nose itch as he stumbled along like a drunken behemoth, and he knew he had stumbled by a flower shop when his mind was overwhelmed by the scent of roses and daisies and weeds and fertilizer. It would have been better than the cigarette smoke and bleach he could smell near other houses, except for its force, the way it was like walking through a cloud of cheap perfume.

He sniffed around the building, and it was as he was just giving up at finding a spot that smelled more like grass than tulips, he caught a whiff of perfume. It wasn’t the cloying, musky scent of Chanel No. 5 that he was used to, but a lighter, fresher scent that made him think of spring and sunshine. Nose to the ground, he followed it, sniffing out the winding trail. Under the pads of his feet, he could feel scuff marks made by the sharp heels of a woman’s shoe on the sidewalk, and human Renard would have marveled at the sense of touch that had not only returned, but heightened. Wolf Renard, however, was on a mission.

The trail went north, and Renard followed it to the locked door of a bakery, then a bookstore, and then into a cluster of houses. It ended at a small white house with a small garden filled with roses. It smelled nicer here, not like the shop, and he searched out the scent to see where it came from. He could hear a football game coming from a TV on the first floor, but the smell was nowhere near there, so he continued circling until he found a lit window on the second floor. The part of human Renard that remained found it funny that there was a trellis covered in vines under the window, and the wolf part was glad for the foothold as he strained upwards toward the window.

With his added height, the tip of his snout would have been visible through the glass, so he stayed to the left of it. The scent was stronger here, and a soft voice floated toward him, humming along to the radio. He could smell a hint of rosemary and a lot of mint, and his snout twitched, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. What he did find unpleasant was the way his stomach still burned, and the way the dull ache from whatever the plant was had not faded. He needed to rest, regain his strength. Being a wolf would take practice.

Satisfied that he had found the smell, and that it was just as comforting as the voice accompanying it, he let go of the trellis and curled up on the ground under the window.

 

* * *

 

Hours later—days later, he had no idea—he awoke to the sound of running and screaming. His eyes felt someone had glopped peanut butter onto them, and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t feel anything else.

“Dad! Daddy, come quick! I need your help!”

Renard pried his eyes open, blinking away the fog of sleep and strange dreams, and found himself watching a woman come toward him with a threadbare green towel. Her hair was sleep-mussed and her pajamas looked like they’d come out of her grandmother’s closet, but her voice soothed him even as it was screaming.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” she said, and it took him a second to realize she was addressing him, approaching with the towel like a fisherman’s net.

The Renard of yesterday would have fought and kicked and screamed and run, but the Renard of today couldn’t keep his eyes open. There was a beautiful woman with a beautiful voice, and he couldn’t summon up any rage or ire. His heavy eyelids drooped, and his head lolled against the siding of the house.

“Dad, hurry!” the woman said, and he caught the scent of sunshine and mint as his eyes closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still G-rated :D

He woke up leaning against the side of a house, with two concerned faces peering at him. One he recognized as the beautiful woman from his dreams, and the other was a heavyset man with a cowlick.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” The woman’s hair was pulled back and she’d put on a silk robe since his dream.

He tried to say yes, but all that came out was a coughing gurgle, so he cleared his throat. “Where am I?”

“Storybrooke,” she said, and he must have heard her wrong because that wasn’t a city that existed.

“Oh.”

“Do you want some clothes?”

He looked down at himself then, and if he’d been a modest man, he would have blushed. He was stark naked, smeared with blood and dirt and grass, covered only by the woman’s threadbare towel.

“No, I should go.”

“Go?” the man asked, straightening up. “You can’t go anywhere like that. Come inside, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

The woman—had she called him ‘Dad’?—nodded her agreement, and Renard didn’t know what to say. Even if he hadn’t been a dangerous international crime lord who was also apparently a werewolf, he wouldn’t have expected them to let him into the house. He was naked, after all.

“Come on.” They both held their arms out to him, and he realized he needed the support when he tried to push himself off the wall and nearly fell over.

“I’m Belle,” the woman said, holding his arm with one hand and his towel with another, keeping it cinched around his waist.

“Moe.”

“Renard.” He waited for the flinch—always on the lookout for agents—but they didn’t react in any unusual way.

“Well, Renard, we’ll have you cleaned up in no time. You like eggs?” Moe asked.

“What?”

“You look half starved,” Belle said. “Take a shower, and then I’ll clean your injuries, and then you can tell us what happened. Should we call the police?”

“No! No, it was a—” _It was a full moon so I became a wolf for about twelve hours_. “A wolf attacked.”

“A wolf?” Moe asked, trying to find the doorknob and look at Renard simultaneously. “In Storybrooke?”

“No, it was just outside.”

They helped him over the threshold into a tiny kitchen, and he wanted to shake them off, but something stopped him and it might have been the way Belle’s blue eyes tinged with worry.

“And you walked all the way here?” she asked, letting her arm slide off of him and handing him the bunch of towel.

“Yes. I didn’t want to pass out in a field.”

“What about your clothes?” She moved away from them, toward a hallway, and he and Moe walked slowly after her.

“Torn to shreds. They mostly fell off. It was all the wolf got from me.”

 Belle made a noise, then disappeared up the stairs.

“Can you make it up?” Moe asked, stopping at the foot.

“Yes. These wounds are shallow.” It wasn’t like he could feel them anyway. “You could let go as well.”

Moe did, but hovered behind him as they climbed the staircase, then nudged him in the direction of an open bathroom door. While Renard was unused to hospitality like this, something more than that felt a little strange. Anyone else would have called the police—even he would have, just to get the strange naked man off his doorstep—so why did Moe and Belle take him into their home? He’d have been suspicious, but Renard had spent his life looking around corners and checking mirrors, and none of his suspicions were raised. They were just weird.

“Here!” Belle appeared in the doorway as Moe was showing Renard where all the soap was and how to use the complicated mess of shower dials. “For when you get out.”

She handed him a pile of clothing with a t-shirt on top. “Sorry, it’s probably big, but the shorts have a draw-string, and I can always try and cinch off the waist for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, the words slipping out without him realizing it. He never thanked people—but then, no one had ever done anything like this before.

“Shout if you need anything,” Moe said, and then they were both gone and the door was shut and he was left alone. He waited until he heard footsteps round the corner, and then turned the shower on.

Since he couldn’t feel the water, he didn’t take long, and it was only when he was finished and smelling like soap that he realized that he’d reeked when they found him. She’d brought him black jersey shorts that dwarfed him, a pair of boxers that tightened around his waist enough to protect his shreds of modesty, and a grey shirt that was more like a dress.

When he stepped out, he could hear sizzling and shuffling from the kitchen, and it smelled like cooking sausages. Then, Belle appeared fully dressed next to him, and he almost jumped.

“How does it fit?”

“Good enough.” He looked down at himself, swimming in a sea of men’s clothing, and shrugged.

“Great. And you don’t feel like anything’s broken?” she asked, hands hovering near him.

He shook his head. “No. All the wounds were shallow.”

“Great.” She smiled at him, and he found that his lip twitched in a small smile without him telling it to.

“Belle? Hurry up, I need to get to work!”

“Coming!” She beckoned Renard. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”

She led him down the stairs, watching him like he was made of glass, and then to a small wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Moe slid a plate in front of her, with two fried eggs, two sausage links, toast, and beans.

“You like your eggs runny?” He pointed the spatula at Renard, who could not remember the last time anyone had cooked for him just because they wanted to.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Belle didn’t even pick her fork up until Moe set Renard’s plate in front of him. There was even more than there had been on Belle’s—more beans, an extra slice of toast, and an extra sausage link.

“This is a lot of food,” he said under his breath.

“Yeah, this is the only thing Dad can cook, so he tends to go overboard.”

She smiled at him like they were sharing a private joke, and his lip twitched again without him telling it to.

“All right,” Moe said, setting a fork down on an empty plate on the counter, mouth full of sausages. “I’m off to the shop. See you in an hour, sweetheart.” He stopped by the sink to put his plates in on his way to kissing Belle on the cheek. “Clive’s on his way.”

“What?”

“He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Renard didn’t know who Clive was, but he could tell by the way Moe glanced at him that this was information meant for his ears—his way of saying not to try anything, because he wouldn’t be alone with Belle for long.

“Great,” Belle said. Clive must have been one of her father’s friends—maybe one she’d never liked.

Moe smiled, waved at Renard, and then disappeared from the kitchen.

“How are your eggs?” Belle asked, cutting her sausages into bite-sized pieces.

“Good. May I—ask you something?” It was okay, just this once, to ask permission instead of demanding. Even a man like him could appreciate selfless hospitality.

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you call the police when you found me?”

He didn’t know what to make of the expression that crossed her face, carefully wiped away as she speared a sausage bite and closed her lips around it. She chewed, jaw moving in deliberate strokes, and he might as well eat, too, while she considered her answer, so he lopped off a mouthful of egg and toast.

“It’s not a good idea to cause undue worry here,” she said, right when his mouth was too stuffed to move. “The mayor—well, she likes to stick her nose into things, and if you didn’t need a hospital, then it was best not to call an ambulance.”

“I see.” He almost chuckled—the _mayor_?—but Belle looked serious, so he kept his amusement to himself.

“So, where are you from?” Belle asked.

“Russia.”

“Your English is very good, but your accent sounds different—have you spent a lot of time here?”

He shoved half a sausage link in his mouth to give himself time to consider his answer. His accent was strange because of the bullet in his brain, dulling his speech as much as his senses, but he didn’t want to tell this beauty that he had brain damage. She had already found him lying naked on the side of her house—and he only vaguely remembered how he got there.

He was saved the trouble of answering by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, and Belle freezing like someone had pointed a gun at her.

“I’ll be right back.” She bolted for the stairs, leaving Renard to peer out the window at the mammoth getting out of a beat up truck. He could only see bits of him through the curtains, but what he saw made him wish that his gun hadn’t suffered in his explosive transformation.

The man was almost to the door by the time Belle flew back into the room, and Renard’s eyes were drawn to the diamond now gracing her ring finger. Was this man so threatening, she had to pretend to be engaged? If he was, Renard could take care of that—it would be perfect repayment.

“Sorry, I’ll get rid of him,” she said, speeding over to the door. She opened it just as the man reached for the knob, and Renard gripped his fork in case he needed to take fast action, but then Belle leaned up and kissed the man on the lips.

“Morning, Clive.” She turned around and pointed to the table. “This is Renard.”

Clive narrowed his eyes at him. “Are those my shorts?”

Renard glanced down at his leg sticking out from the chair, and then back at the man that he refused to believe was Belle’s fiancé. He wasn’t surprised that they were falling off anymore.

“They don’t fit you anymore, Clive.”

He needed to get out of here. The only thing he remembered from his transformation was Belle’s scent and an unbelievable amount of pain, and he was already jealous of her fiancé, and it was just a bad idea to be here.

“Excuse me,” he said, standing up. “May I use your phone?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s on the wall.” She pointed to a phone in the cradle by the fridge. He hadn’t seen one attached to a cord in years, but this town was quaint.

“Thank you.” He forced himself to think about the number for Lagunov’s British phone instead of listening to Belle and Clive, dialing it carefully. He hoped that his man had enough sense to answer the strange number.

“Speak.”

Renard switched to Russian, pitching his voice low so that Belle wheedling Clive would cover it up. “ _How is the borscht at Braga’s_?”

“ _It has sour cream and caviar_. _Sir, where are you_?”

“ _Thank god. I am in a town called_ Storybrooke _. I need you to come here and bring me a new phone, a new gun, and—_ ” He glanced down at himself. “— _clothes_.”

“ _I will be there soon. What happened?_ ”

“ _I will tell you in the car. Tell the pilot to have the plane ready_.”

“ _Sir—_ ”

Renard waited for Lagunov to speak, and when he didn’t, made a noise to prompt him, feeling like a stone had been dropped down his throat.

“ _Sir, we should not move you for the next two days_.”

“ _Why not_?”

“ _Last night was not the full moon._ ”

“ _What_?” If last night wasn’t the full moon, then why had he turned into a wolf?

“ _Tonight is. I looked at a cycle. If legend is to be believed, you will transform tonight and tomorrow night as well. It would not be wise move you, in the event of a strange circumstance on the helicopter_.”

Under normal circumstances, he considered himself the supreme dictator of his operation, but in the realm of all things weird, Lagunov was the undisputed king. If he said that it was a bad idea, then Renard would have to believe him.

“ _So what do we do? Go back to London_?” Part of him wanted to suggest staying here—all small towns had a bed and breakfast or something—but the part of his brain not hypnotized by Belle’s perfume knew this was asking for trouble.

“ _Yes. I will come in a car._ _What is the address_?”

Renard located it written on a business card taped to the fridge, and relayed it to Lagunov before hanging up. Belle was waiting for him at the table, alone.

“He is gone?” he asked.

“I sent him out to fix the broken mower.” She shrugged. “Is someone coming to get you?”

“Yes.” He took his seat again, prodding his now-cold eggs with his fork. “Are you engaged?”

She flushed—a reaction he’d never before seen to a question like that—and shoved a bean around her plate. “Yes. For two years now.”

“That is a long engagement,” he said, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Yeah. I thought getting married would be a nice adventure in my life, but now I think it’s just my only option left.” She laughed without humor, and stopped chasing the bean around. “Sorry, I don’t mean to unload on you.”

“It is okay.” He tried to make his staring less obvious. Belle didn’t want to get married anymore, and he may have just met her, but it mattered to him—there was a reason that she was the only thing he remembered from last night, and him needing to stay in England longer was a sign that he should learn more about her

“So—you got attacked by a wolf?”

He froze, having forgotten that that was his story, and tried to think of as many details as he could while chewing toast—and then Belle squeaked.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. When I’m nervous, I speak without thinking. You don’t want to talk about your attack. Are you feeling all right? Does anything hurt?”

He pressed his lips together because he was considering chuckling, and people of his stature did not sit at cozy kitchen tables eating full English breakfasts with beautiful women.

“No, I cannot feel anything.”

“Oh, that’s good.” She smiled. “They seemed to be mostly shallow. I can put some antiseptic on them just in case, though, especially if it was a wolf.”

The thought of Belle with her fingers on his bare stomach made him burn.

“Thank you. But I cannot feel anything.” He tapped the spot on his forehead where he thought the scar was, and Belle scrunched her forehead with curiosity. “See this?”

“The scar?”

“Yes. It is from where I was shot.”

Belle’s hands flew to her mouth, and she almost poked herself with her fork. “Shot? How? By who?”

“One of my rivals. A doctor saved my life in time, but he could not get the bullet out. I have nerve damage now, and I feel nothing.” ‘Nerve damage’ sounded much less degrading than ‘brain damage.’

“Wow,” Belle breathed, staring at him like he had all new features she needed to explore. No one ever looked on him with pity, but no one ever looked on him with wonder, either, and he found that he liked the way Belle’s eyes roved over his face, discovering new territory. “What do you do that you have enemies like that?”

What did he do? He couldn’t exactly tell her. “I am a military weapons specialist.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you design weapons?”

The way she leaned forward made him wish the answer was ‘yes.’ “No. I am an expert on weapon types and—weapon intelligence.” If Lagunov could see him now, he’d have a field day.

“Weapon intelligence,” Belle repeated, waving the same bean on her fork. “That sounds interesting. Do you have a specialty?”

“Guns.” If she wasn’t running yet, maybe there was hope—but he wasn’t creative enough to invent too many more details. “Ah, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

It was now or never. He had to be brave—he was a wolf now, and if he could handle that, then he could handle this. “I am staying in London for a few more days. Would you like to have—” He wanted to say dinner, but a glance at her finger reminded him that this couldn’t be a date. “—lunch with me tomorrow?”

Her mouth fell into a little o, and he wouldn’t have blamed her for rejecting him, but soon it turned into a pretty smile and fluttering lashes. “Yes—yes, I think I would like that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lagunov left him in the field to transform again that night, promising to make sure he was back before sunrise. Renard didn’t remember anything he’d done the night before except in hazy flashes—he remembered pain, and killing, and blood, and then he remembered Belle’s scent and the sound of her voice.

He wasn’t surprised to come to his senses the next morning under Belle’s window again, and if he was completely honest with himself, he’d admit that he had almost planned it. It was lucky that Lagunov expected it, too, and appeared on a motorcycle with a heavy-duty muffler as the first fingers of dawn were shoving the moon away. Moe and Belle were not likely to be as hospitable if they thought he was stalking them.

Then, once they got back to London—an hour away on motorcycle—Renard had time for a shower to get the remaining dirt and blood off of himself before he had to rush to check on things so that he would have time to get back to Belle for their lunch date.

They’d planned to meet at a restaurant one town over—the only restaurant anyone ever went to in her town was called Granny’s, and the mayor was too likely to show up there and start asking questions. He wasn’t scared at all of a small town politician, but since he was only staying until the next afternoon and she could easily make Belle’s life miserable, he humored her.

She was there when his car pulled up, standing outside in a blue dress. He couldn’t tell if she’d dressed up for him, or if it was just her natural affinity for being beautiful, but she was going to make him look like the luckiest ugly loser in the restaurant in his jeans and motorcycle jacket.

When she saw him walking toward her, she lifted her gaze from her feet and smiled like they were old friends reconnecting for the first time in years. He gave a tentative smile in return, balling his fists in the pockets of his jacket.

“I see you found it all right.” She bit her lip, still smiling, but looking unsure.

“It was very easy.” He gestured toward the restaurant with a jerky sweep of his hand, and Belle turned to walk in.

“One of my friends is inside, apparently, and I’m very sorry in advance if she comes over and is rude to you.”

Did that mean they were being joined? Renard had taken to Belle quickly, but he wasn’t exactly a people person—unless he was lulling them into a false sense of security—and Belle’s opinion of him would plummet if she saw him trying to socialize.

“It is fine.”

When she led him inside, though, she got a table for two, waving to a young woman with red streaks in her hair sitting across from a blonde man in a suit. They were seated across the restaurant from them, but he could still see the woman staring at him through dramatically lined eyes.

“Sorry, ignore her,” Belle said, giving a little wave before turning her full attention on him. Her engagement ring glinted on her finger, bulky and cumbersome. It wasn’t the ring he’d have picked for her, but maybe she liked it.

Their waitress came before they’d had a chance to open their menus, and Belle ordered tea, so he did, too. He hadn’t been to a restaurant like this in decades—maybe not ever. His usual haunts were dives hidden in alleyways, and bars underneath buildings that a man could only find if he knew someone—places where it was commonplace to see guns on the table and people getting their fingers broken in shadowy corners for not paying back their poker losses. Here, the tabletops were covered in lace, with candles and a vase of flowers on each table. Their vase held pansies.

 “So, you like your ring?” he asked, then clamped his jaw together. Five seconds without the waitress and his foot was already in his mouth.

Belle looked surprised, but glanced down at her hand to consider it, which was more than anyone else he knew would have done if asked that question by a strange, ugly man.  

“It’s elegant.”

“May I see it?” He held his hand out, expecting her to drop the ring into it, but instead, she laid her fingers on his. He imagined that they were cold and smooth, like whipped cream. Swallowing, he brought her hand to eye level, tilting it back and forth to let the diamond catch the light.

“I have bad news,” he said, setting her hand on the table. She pulled it back toward her, not nearly as fast as he expected her to.

“Oh?”

“The diamonds are fake.”

He looked at her, waiting for the explosion—the tantrum, the screams, the sobs about how he was wrong and how would a weapons specialist know anything about an engagement ring—but she just smiled, letting out a humorless chuckle.

“I know.”

His jaw sagged. If Elektra King had ever gotten a fake diamond, she would have gutted the man who gave it to her.

“You do?”

“Mmhmm. I know that real diamonds sparkle more. But Clive doesn’t, and he gets so insecure about money, so I just pretend I don’t.” She shrugged.  

“Wait.” He held a hand up, but the waitress interrupted them by coming back with their tea. Renard hadn’t looked at the menu, but Belle seemed to know what she wanted already, so he pretended that he had, and after she ordered something with cheese and chutney that sounded like the most useless meal ever, Renard ordered the first thing with sausages on it that he saw.

“So you know it is fake?” he said, as soon as the waitress had left.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. But your fiancé—he told you it was real?”

“Yes. But I knew right away it wasn’t.”

“And you said nothing?”

“Of course not.” She dropped a sugar cube in her tea, forehead creased like she was upset.

“You did not pick a fight?”

“It seems a silly thing to pick a fight over.” She looked up at him, eyes hard.

“It seems a silly thing to lie over.”

She glanced down at her tea, forehead creased again, but this time, she looked thoughtful. “Clive’s always wanted to be a provider,” she said, watching her spoon move slowly around her teacup. “I figure, why make a big deal over something so unimportant as a fake diamond?”

“If that is how you feel.” He shrugged, and looked down at his own tea. He should have ordered coffee.

“You think I’m wrong.” She was watching him, but she didn’t look angry—she looked like she was prepared to start a debate.

“It is not my place to tell you that you are wrong.” He squeezed some lemon in his tea, since it was the only thing Belle did not put in hers.

“But you think I am?”

He needed to backpedal out of the situation as soon as possible. “I do not know—”

“You met him. You have an opinion. What is it?”

Belle could probably gut a man as well as Elektra if she tried, and she wouldn’t have to do more than speak.

“I don’t think you like the ring, and I don’t think you want to get married.” He lifted his teacup to soften his words by hiding his face, ignoring the way it made him feel like a child to carry such delicate, flowered china.

“What makes you say that?”

She was calm, calmer than he would be had anyone said that to him about Elektra once upon a time, and calmer than he knew Elektra would be if anyone questioned her motives about anything. He felt like this was a trap.

“You do not wear your ring all the time, only in public and when your fiancé is around. It is bulky on your finger—you are fashionable, you know how to wear jewelry, and nothing you are wearing matches it.”

Belle studied her finger, studied the clunky tiered ring adorning it, and Renard could not tell what she was thinking. He was good at reading people, good at knowing what to say when it came down to it, but he was not used to dealing with people as friends.

“You’re right, you know. This ring is hideous.”

“It’s not hideous—”

“Look, I hope it’s not too forward, but—I’m glad I met you.” She looked up at him, biting her blood-red lip. “I don’t want you to think that I’m being odd or offensive or trying to pick a fight. It’s just—it’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t know me, you know? Because everyone knows Clive and everyone knows we’ve been together for so long, and—you’re refreshing.”

He had never been refreshing before, and he didn’t know how to feel about something like that, especially when he could say the same about Belle.

“It is nice to talk to you, too,” he said, forcing the words out through his dry throat. “I am lucky to have been attacked near your town.”

She smiled at him like he meant something to her, like they shared something no one else did, and for a second, he thought he might smile back. Then, her red-streaked friend appeared behind her, leaning away from him with her nose wrinkled as though he smelled rancid.

“Belle, I need to talk to you, can you—yeah, just—over here.” The woman all but yanked Belle out of her seat, casting furtive glances at Renard as she dragged her over to a corner. She spoke low enough that Renard couldn’t hear, but he didn’t miss the way she kept jerking her head toward him. Belle’s arms were crossed and her mouth was flat, but this did not deter the woman, and it was only Belle pointing to the kitchen and bolting while the woman’s back was turned that got her out of it. She slid into her seat with a roll of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry. She’s not usually this invasive, really.”

“It is no problem.” Their moment was gone, but he was ready to make a new one. “You said you wanted an adventure.”

Belle heaved a sigh, biting her lip and looking down. “I’ve always dreamed of adventure.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, and when she didn’t react, he thought he had gone too far—should he have said ‘please?’

Then, she looked up in wonder, like she couldn’t believe he was real, and his heart stuttered. “You don’t want me to sit here and ramble on about everything I’ve dreamed of.”

“Yes,” he said, holding on to his teacup like a tiny safety blanket. “I do.”


	4. Chapter 4

Lagunov didn’t even pretend that Renard wasn’t going to end up under Belle’s window, and he dropped him off as close to Storybrooke as he deemed safe. Renard’s transformations were still hazy the next day, but he always knew Belle’s scent, and he always knew what was going on when he could smell it—like that scent had been made for him. It was the only thing that he could still enjoy as a human.

He was getting better at deer killing, and even the small human part of his brain reveled in the feel of blood filling his mouth, of bones crushing beneath his paws. He’d sniffed out a stream on his second night that was good for getting the blood off his snout and paws, and it was always then that he would remember Belle and start for Storybrooke.

The light was on in her window when he curled up under it, but the radio he was used to hearing was off, and Belle wasn’t singing. He settled in his usual spot, curling up and preparing to stay awake all night, drinking in her scent and the sound of her voice.

Then, a male voice broke into the night, and Renard lifted his head, unable to stop the quiet growl building low in his sternum.

“Belle, come on, Germany? Really? What are we going to do there? We don’t even speak German.”

“I speak enough to get by, and besides, I’m sure most people speak English as well, or at least French.”

Renard perked his ears up, hearing the conversation like he was in the room with them instead of crouched under the window, hackles raised at the unwelcome timbre of Clive’s voice.

“But we agreed on Brighton. We were going to rent a nice cottage on the beach and stay there for a week, what was so wrong with that?”

Belle sighed, and he could hear her pacing, picking up things and setting them back down. Was she wearing her engagement ring?

“Clive, it’s our honeymoon. It’s supposed to be special.”

Renard strained his ears at the ensuing silence, and when he stretched up, he heard the faint swishing of material, and imagined that Clive was putting his big, hairy arms around Belle.

“We’ll get to be alone together for a week on a beach. Isn’t that special?”

“Clive—” He heard footsteps, and perhaps Belle had pushed him away and walked across the room. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to be alone together and go to beaches. I want to go somewhere exciting, somewhere we’ve never been.”

“Belle, what’s the point? It’s our honeymoon, we’re just going to spend it in bed.”

A snarl tore out of Renard’s snout without him realizing it was even building, covering up Belle’s exclamation of her fiancé’s name. Then, everything was silent.

“Did you hear a dog?” Belle asked, and then there were footsteps.

“It sounded bigger than a dog.” Clive’s steps joined hers, and then the latch on the window started to slide and Renard bolted for cover, hiding amongst her neighbor’s hydrangea bushes.

“Do you think it was a wolf?”

“There are no wolves in Storybrooke, Belle.”

“I told you just yesterday, Clive, that Renard was attacked by a wolf. We should call the police!”

“What if it’s just a dog, Belle?”

“Fine, let’s go check.”

The window shut, and the hunter in him wanted to wait until Clive left the house so that he could crush him, snap every bone in his body—but the survivor knew that his life depended on fleeing, and so Renard ran, wishing he could have one more night with Belle and her radio all to himself.

 

* * *

 

Renard had been human for a full hour by the time Lagunov found him curled naked under a tree, and it was just long enough for him to come up with a plan.

“The plane is waiting,” Lagunov said, waiting for him to tug on the jeans he’d brought.

“Change of plans. We are staying until midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Maybe later.”

“Sir—”

“Listen to me, and listen carefully. I do not want to explain myself twice.”

 

* * *

Renard checked his watch—2353. He’d been behind Belle’s house, wrapped in his motorcycle jacket, for the past hour, waiting for the TV to go off. His hearing seemed to have improved since his first transformation, or maybe Storybrooke was just quiet enough that people standing just outside the wall could hear what was going on inside without much effort.

It felt weird to be outside of her house in his human form, but it was also comforting to think about what he was about to do next. This, he understood—he knew how to plan crimes, and he refused to think about the fact that this was only partially a crime. It still required stealth and strategy, and possibly the gun holstered at his hip.

Midnight came and went before the house went silent, and Renard crept around to Belle’s side. The big light in her room was off, but there was a tiny glow in the corner of the window, like she had a lamp at her bedside. When he’d left the restaurant yesterday, she’d hardly waited until he was gone before pulling _Emma_ out of her bag. Was she reading it now?

Ten minutes elapsed, and the light didn’t change. Moe was the sort of man who would be asleep and snoring as soon as he left the television, Renard was sure, but he felt more confident giving him extra time. There could be no interruptions.

Feeling stupid, Renard knelt in their small garden, feeling around for any loose pebbles. He managed to find a handful, and stood up, clenching his fist around them and wishing he could feel them prick his palms. How did men do this?

The first pebble he threw missed her window by a meter, and he cursed himself for not taking this seriously enough. He could shoot a man between the eyes from fifty feet away, but he couldn’t hit a window ten feet above him?

His next pebble hit, so he threw two more in quick succession to make sure that Belle knew it wasn’t just a random noise outside. Two more after that, and the window filled with light. There were only three more in his palm, so he took a deep breath and hurled them all at once. They hit the window with a clatter, and then Belle appeared in it, eyebrows drawn together while she leaned on the sill in what he could only describe as a negligee.

He took a few steps back so that she could see him, slashing his hand across the air in a would-be friendly wave. In his head, her opinion hadn’t mattered—he was going to take her no matter what, because he wanted to have her always—but faced with Belle, he knew that he would leave as soon as she asked.

She reached over to unlatch the window, then slid it across.

“Renard?”

Her hair fell down to cover her shoulders, but she only seemed concerned about the skin bared by her slip because it was cold, and she hugged herself.

“Belle.” What was he supposed to say now? He hadn’t thought to rehearse a speech, he spoke so rarely in these instances. “I am leaving, and I wanted to see you one last time.”

Belle leaned out the window, a shiver passing over her shoulders, and looked around. “Do you—” She looked back at him, biting her lip. “Do you want to come up?”

They both looked at the trellis, and Renard had imagined what it might be like to scale it all day—he was prepared for this part.

“Yes.”

She leaned back inside the window, rubbing her arms, and he came to study the latticing. It would be challenging, since he had no way to feel out the sturdier parts, but if he moved quickly, he was sure he could do it. Perhaps, when they left, they could use the door.

Hand over hand, he made it up the wall with only one slipping incident, and then he was hauling himself through Belle’s window, and then he was inside her bedroom and he never wanted to leave. The whole room smelled like her perfume, and he imagined that her pillow would smell like that and her shampoo, and even if that was all he ever got out of this fool’s errand, he would be happy.

She shut the window, trapping herself in the room with a dangerous criminal who was now also a werewolf, and Renard considered throwing her over his shoulder and leaving right then.

“So you’re going back home?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Come with me.” He hadn’t meant to say that—but then, he supposed it was the verbal version of tossing her over his shoulder.

Belle stared at him like she’d swallowed a fish, and he refused to back down. It was now or never, and he refused to think about the consequences of him asking. If she said no, he would leave, and he would never see her again, so he would never have to relive the embarrassment.

“What?”

“Come with me.” He lifted his foot to take a step closer, but stepped back instead, clenching his fists at his side. “Let me take you on the adventure you’ve always wanted.”

Belle looked around her room, at all the books strewn about and her antique decorations and quilts, flexing her fingers on her arm. “I can’t. I can’t just—”

“Belle, listen.”

She looked up at him, eyes wet, and he offered his hand.

“You are stuck here, with a man you don’t love, and a job you don’t want, in a town you’ll never leave unless you’re pushed. Come with me. I can show you everything you’ve always dreamed of.”

“Renard, I can’t just leave in the middle of the night—drop everything and—and just go with you.” She folded her arms, still chewing her lip and looking around.

“Fine. I will wait until tomorrow.”

Her head jerked toward him. “What?”

“I will wait—tomorrow, the next day, whenever you want.” He had not planned this—it was supposed to be now or never—but if there was any chance that Belle would come with him, he would take it.

Her eyes widened, and her hand drifted toward his. “Really?”

Making a decision he hoped he wouldn’t regret, he walked over to her desk. “I need a piece of paper.”

Her forehead wrinkled, but she joined him, tearing a sheet off a legal pad. He picked a pen up, then scribbled the address of a P.O. box down and handed it to her.

“Send me word here when you finally want to leave this place.”

When she only stared at it, he took her hand and closed it around the paper, hoping he was as gentle as he meant to be. She clenched her fingers, wrinkling the corner, and stared at his messy script with glassy eyes.

“Belle, I—”

“Let’s go.” When she looked up again, there was a fire in her eyes that he hadn’t seen.

“What?”

“Let’s go. Take me on an adventure.”

He met her eyes, and he almost forgot all of his careful planning, his military training, his tactical skills. Belle was smart, though, and she turned to head for her closet.

“I’ll get dressed. Where are we going? I’ll need to pack, too.”

He stood out of her way, trying to gather his wits while she moved. “Istanbul, first.”

She turned to him, the beginnings of a smile spreading across her face. “Really? Istanbul? I’ve always wanted to see the Hagia Sophia.”

“We can do that.” Would it be rude if he sat on her bed? He wanted to help her pack so that he could explore, but that might have been overstepping his boundaries.

She hauled a suitcase out of her closet—much bigger than he’d expected—and threw it open on the floor. “You’re welcome to sit, if you’d like.”

He took a seat at her desk instead of the bed, and she had enough trinkets there that he was satisfied. A closed laptop sat in the middle of organized chaos—various pens, sticky notes, highlighters, and paperbacks were piled around it. One of the sticky notes said _strawberry with pastry cream filling_ and another said _hazelnut almond cake with chocolate ganache_. He couldn’t read any of the others.

“Ah—are you almost done?” he asked, watching her come out of the closet with armfuls of dresses.

“Well, I want to make sure I’m prepared.” She disappeared into the closet and shut the door, so he peeled off another sticky note to read. _Lemon cake with lemon curd_.

“Why do you have cakes on your desk?”

She poked her head out of the closet. “Wedding planning.”

He dropped the note like it had burned him, resolving not to read anything else on the desk. This lasted all of three seconds before he started peeling notes back to reveal ones underneath them, uncovering more flavor combinations and things like _cerulean and peach_. He was trying to decipher one that was entirely slashed out when she emerged from the closet, fully dressed.

“All right. Just need to pack my books.”

He looked at her giant suitcase, already stuffed with everything in her closet, and then her overflowing bookshelf. Perhaps he should have brought a bigger car.

He waited while she zipped up her suitcase, then lugged another one out of the closet and started filling it with things from her room—a crocheted afghan, books, something that looked like a makeup bag.

“Don’t forget your perfume,” he said without thinking.

She looked at him. “My perfume?”

For a few seconds he could only stare. “Yes—because your beauty products might be difficult to come by and I think you smell nice.” He grit his teeth. Why had he said that?

Belle just flushed, however, and took an atomizer off the shelf. “Thank you. I’ll grab my soap, too.”

All in all, it took her about fifteen minutes before she had two large, stuffed suitcases ready for him to take downstairs—there was no way he was going to climb out the window with them.

“All right, I just want to say goodbye to my father—I’ll meet you outside?”

She chewed her lip, and he wished he could say something reassuring, but all he could think of was asking her why it mattered to say goodbye, and he knew that was not the right thing to say.

Leaving her in her bare room, he slunk down the stairs, years of practice sneaking through buildings lending his steps a soft silence, even with his heavy load. Once he made it to the bottom, he texted Lagunov to bring the car around, and then he waited.

It took so long, he was afraid Belle had changed her mind, and was calling the police. His hand was on his gun just in case, until he heard her creeping down the stairs. She was sniffling, and carrying an envelope.

“Sorry,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes. “Let me just address this.”

She bustled around by the fridge for a few minutes, scribbling on the envelope and finding stamps. Then, she took a deep breath, slid her ring off her finger, and dropped it in with the letter.

“It is for Clive?” he asked, and she pressed her lips together before nodding. Her eyes were full, and he didn’t know what to do, so he turned his head while she sealed the envelope.

“All right.” She plucked her purse off the hook. “Let’s go.”

He wanted to offer her his elbow or his arm or anything for comfort, but he had both of her bags to carry, so he stood back to let her open the door. For a second, she just stood in the doorway, watching the unmarked black sedan in the street, and then she lifted her chin and walked forward, leaving Renard to follow.


End file.
